


Companions

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Series: The New World [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Character Study, If you've read the last two in this universe you'll like this one, M/M, i'm terrible with tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 02:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14486412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: A chance encounter reveals a hidden truth.A 'New World' short story.





	Companions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).



> I always say I'll never come back to these universes, but I might want to stop making that promise.  
> A year ago, I told xJuniperx that I would write her another short story about James and Ezra. That one stalled after a few pages, and I thought maybe I should leave well enough alone. But then again, Jackie is too wonderful to completely let the idea go (you never want to let down someone who's left you 6-part comments), so I've always kept it at the back of my mind. Somehow, this entirely new story came to me, finally, and now here it is. Only a year and a half after I first had the privilege of meeting the world champion commenter.  
> So--my friend, this is very late, but for you, another dip into this universe that first brought us together. I don't have the words for how much you and the squad have come to mean to me. Instead, let me just throw some story at you.

James is used to crowds. More precisely, he is accustomed to the controlled chaos of the docks. Bodies in motion, voices hollering in a polyglot clamour. Sounds and sights that last a second and no more. He can pick out the occasional pertinent piece of information, a name, a lead to some new venture. He can navigate the mass with instinct. A lifetime spent in places like this, and James is happy as a clam.

            Ezra, obviously, is not.

            He hides it well. If Ezra wants to keep his feelings to himself, he can. After a year together, though, James can puzzle out when something is amiss. He would be a dreadful companion if he cannot offer Ezra even that much.  

            James pauses, waiting for Ezra to rejoin his side. “I’m tempted to leash you like a dog.”

            That earns him a sly smile. “I’m tempted to let you.” James snorts, and they continue through the crowd together.

            Retort or not, James cannot deny that Ezra is unhappy. He has assumed the man’s unrelenting workload is to blame. Ezra works with little rest five days a week, and even on weekends sailors will pound on the door seeking aid. It used to be that Ezra could and would rise for any emergency. Yet more and more frequently, Ezra will remain in bed when the desperate call, covering his head with a pillow. James has needed to chase off a few highly determined visitors.

            He asked Ezra to join him today just to get him away from the house. Well, not ‘just.’ James never tires of Ezra’s company. There is a part of him, deep, barely acknowledged, that would be pleased to spend every waking moment with Ezra. That is covered with many layers of bravado and an inability to own up to his own feelings.

            He thought it would be good for Ezra to go for a walk. James needs to stop at Van Leewuenhook’s to collect his pay from the last trip down the canals. He had been home three days and realized Ezra had not left the house since his return. James knows it is easy to be subsumed by work. Patterns calcify, even for someone as aware and adaptable as Ezra Wake. Accompanying James to the docks might not be thrilling, but he promised a trip to the bookseller’s afterwards.

            “Ah, bribery,” was Ezra’s response. “You know my vulnerable points, old man.”

            A falcon lets out a shriek to their left, tethered to a man’s arm. “Thank God we didn’t bring Shuck,” Ezra remarks. “That would have made an excellent and costly meal.”

            “Please, Wake. That dog is the best trained animal in Amsterdam.”

            “I beg to differ. Apparently there’s a dancing bear prancing about.”

            James glances down at Ezra. His hair has been cut short, much to James’ displeasure. He loves when Ezra’s hair is long enough to take fistfuls of. But the trip before last, James returned to discover Ezra’s black locks shorn, and said by greeting, “Why the hell would you do a thing like that?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he had misspoken. He was hit with a wall of Hebrew curses and eventually a slammed bedroom door.

            “You’re pale,” James says.

            “Your nose is a little burned. Almost as if redheads weren’t meant for daylight.”

            “No changing that.”

            “Of course there is. Your hair is going white.”

            “Better than losing it all.”

            “You’re doing that as well. That hairline’s not moving forward.”

            “I’d be careful, Wake.”

            “Whatever for?”

            “It may be those sharp words deepening the lines around your eyes.”

            Ezra scoffs, hands in his pockets. “I fail to see the correlation. I think it’s purely the exhaustion.”

            He wears clothes much like the sailors’. Long pants and a too-large shirt. “I can’t be bothered with fucking stockings today,” he had justified, accent veering common. There was no argument from James. He can never be bothered with stockings. James is half tempted to hook an arm around Ezra’s neck and pull him briefly closer. There is no telling with this crowd, though. Instead, they walk side by side.

            “Exhausted,” James says, teasing. “In your comfortable offices. Try working the waters.”

            “Yes, dear, you’re terribly hardened. You’re in peak physical form. For a man of your age, that is.”

            James grins. “You’re asking for a duel, aren’t you.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re no match for my sword.”

            “Public or not, you’re asking for—”

            “What?” Ezra practically purrs.

            They share a smile of mutual understanding, and James says, “Keep this up and I’ll buy you all the books your heart desires.”

            “You’ve already won me. No need to try so hard.”

            “Perhaps I’m merely trying to keep you.”

            “At this point, James, the effort would be in losing me.”

            “Likewise.”

            “You romantic.”          

            Small miracle, that the two of them can be in this place, having such a frivolous conversation. It is second nature to talk like this, be like this. It should have been impossible. Instead, it has proven merely improbable, and here they are. Two men, entirely comfortable with one another and what they share.

            “It’s a beautiful day,” Ezra observes.

            True enough. The sky is a touch hazy, and a breeze comes off the water. The kind of day that will yield a spectacular sunset. When that happens, they go up to the roof, where a few battered chairs are kept, shielded from the view of their neighbours, and they natter, or Ezra will bring out his violin.

            Ezra bumps into him, elbow nudging James’ side. “Which one is that?”

            James looks above the crowd. The water is nearly cluttered as the dock. Ezra must be referring to the sloop cutting the water, momentarily appearing between other, closer masts, blocking much of the view.

            “The _Skadi_ ,” James answers. He knows most of the ships that have docked more than once in the _haven von Amsterdam_. Seamen spread information faster than anyone. They are incurable gossips. James does not consider himself a gossip; he pictures himself more as a spider secure in his web.

            “Where does the name come from?”

            “Fairy tale. She was the wife of Uller. Spirit in the ice. She was a hunter, known for her short skirt.”

            “Wonder what the masthead looks like.”

            James laughs, hearing someone let out a few loud lines of ‘Master John.’ “Truth is, it’s not even a woman. It’s a bird of some sort. Hideous—“

            He stops, realizing that Wake is no longer at his side.

            James turns, searching for him. After a moment, he says, “Wake?”

            Ezra stands unmoving in the crowd. He gazes away, lips parted. James has seen a hundred different sides to Ezra—fierce, canny, murderous—but until this moment he has never seen Ezra like this. The man is shocked.

            Before James can say his name again, Ezra unsticks himself, taking a few steps away. “Burial?” he says loudly, a rawness to his voice. When he repeats himself, it is a scream, then he is running through the crowd.

            James follows, because he has never seen Ezra like this. He barely has time to react, but whatever Ezra runs to, so will he.

            There is suddenly a reply to Ezra’s desperate call. “EzraWake?” Like it is a single word.

            James is at a distance, but still close enough to see the crowd part as a tall black man lopes through. He grabs Ezra up into his arms, swinging him off his feet, despite his near skeletal frame. He has a patchy beard, but thick sideburns, with a red silk scarf tied around his neck. Just on sight, James marks him as a pirate.

            Burial. James realizes who this must be. Burial McCoy, captain of the _Golem_ , successor after Ezra’s Henry died.

            Burial puts him down, but Ezra is still clinging to him. It is so out of character that James hangs back. He can only observe, curious, and unnerved.

            The pirate takes Ezra by the face, pushing him back to look at him. “My friend! My very good friend. Oh, let me see you. Look how fine you look! And alive! This I did not expect.”

            Ezra pounds a fist against Burial’s chest. “You absolute bastard! I thought your body was long since feeding the fish.”

            “Worse than a cat. I have lives to spare.” Burial lets out a sigh, then pulls Ezra close. “Hitgaagati eleykha.”

            Ezra echoes the words, then draws back. They launch into an excited conversation of swiftly flowing Hebrew.

            James knows he should give them privacy. Only this is the first time he has ever encountered someone from Ezra’s old life. There is no chance of tearing himself away.

            They are ensconced in their own little world. James cannot remember the last time he saw Ezra so excited. If ever. From where he stands, James can see Ezra’s wide eyes and smile as he eagerly listens to what Burial says. James has picked up a few words of Ezra’s language over the past year, so he catches bits and pieces. He manages to parse out that the _Golem_ has been at dock a day, though not under that name. Ezra looks ten years younger with the knowledge.

            Burial goes somber, and whatever he says makes Ezra duck his head. Henry’s name is spoken, and Ezra winces. He looks up at Burial with a shrug, speaking quietly.

            At last, Burial spots James. Their eyes lock, and the pirate captain’s face hardens. “Help you, friend?” he snaps, in a baritone incongruous with his gauntness.

            Ezra glances back. His expression tells the tale: he completely forgot James was there. “He’s with me,” Ezra is quick to say. Burial looks at him sharply, and Ezra shrugs again. He does not seem to have the words.

            Burial takes a brisk survey of James, obviously none too pleased. “Hm,” he says. “A white man.”

            “I know. Still think Henry would be proud?”

            “He would not be pleased,” Burial responds, and James can tell it is an understatement.

            Ezra says, “How long are you here for? I want to know everything. All your stories. And the stories I have to tell you!” Burial takes a breath, and Ezra shakes his head. “You’ll be here some time, yes?”

            It is clear he will not. “My brother, I am sorry.”

            James watches as Ezra nods, Burial explaining something in Hebrew. Ezra just nods and nods. James catches something about another ship. A need to be elsewhere, and soon.

            When Ezra speaks again, it is with forced cheer. He pats Burial’s chest with words of encouragement. Burial can clearly tell that Ezra does not entirely mean it, and the fact that this stranger sees through Ezra’s masks makes something buried and mean flare inside of James. Burial gestures back over his shoulder. Ezra laughs and shakes his head. He says a thing that James recognizes. ‘I think it would break my heart.’ He motions for Burial to go on his way.

            Burial wraps his long arms around him, speaking quietly. Ezra is relaxed and comfortable with him in a way that is so peculiar. James has only ever seen him like this behind closed doors. Ezra is the one to push Burial away, friendly but firm. Burial gives his cheek a light slap before slipping away.

            Ezra calls after him, “Be careful.”

            “Never, Mrs. Wake!” Burial replies, and disappears into the crowd.

            It should be obvious, that James go to him. Only Ezra seems frozen in place, gazing after Burial. It has all been so unlike him that James decides caution is the safest course.

            That is borne out when, after ten seconds, Ezra lets out a sob.

            This—this is the most bewildering thing of all. The most James has ever seen from Ezra in this regard were a few sniffles when one of his precious dogs died and when he was forced to leave his home. Real tears, though. Ezra is good at disguising his emotions as any person James has ever met. If he is unable to hold himself together now, his grief must be great indeed.

            Ezra puts his hands to his face. He shakes.

            It is short-lived. Dropping his hands, he turns and walks directly to James. Without looking at him, Ezra says, “I’m taking a walk. I’ll be home eventually.”

            He is jittering, eyes red. James says softly, “Of course.”

            With that, Ezra moves away briskly, away from the _Golem_ , from Burial, from James. James watches him go, part of him wanting to follow, but knowing that sometimes a man needs to bear these things alone.

           

Black Shuck has been seated by the door for an hour. Occasionally, his tail thumps against the floor boards.

            James glances over the top of his book. “Don’t hold your breath, Shuck.” The dog whimpers, then pads across the room. He drops onto his rear, resting his muzzle on James’ leg. Without missing a beat, James removes one hand from his book to pet the dog’s massive head. Shuck is the most affectionate animal alive. When he is not killing on command, of course.

            It is late, sun almost gone save a greenish tint to the sky. James reads by candle light, his usual custom at night. Their home is rapidly filling with books. Ezra has already sold some volumes back. James will sit in his chair, that he made himself, and relax.

            Relax. It remains an oddity. He has not lived a life of leisure. In the past, the luxury of reading was a pleasure stolen, a few moments before exhausted sleep. Now, if he has not read at least an hour, he considers himself robbed. He will read, and he will sleep, and some nights his dreams will be free of horrors.

            His life is a good one. It is undeserved. He is living proof that the wicked face few consequences. That is the way of the world. His job is simple and contents him. He sails the canals of the Netherlands, rarely gone from Amsterdam for more than a week. He makes enough coin to cover expenses and books. Is it the greatest use of skills? Obviously not. But he lives, and no one dies as a result of his choices. When he is not on a small ship, he spends his time in the workshop behind the apothecary, building furniture. His hands like to be at work.

            Then there is Ezra.

            James looks to the door again. It is not like Ezra to be so late. James has no idea of where he could have gone. Only Ezra is an inveterate keeper of secrets, and James has learned to give that piece of his companion space to breathe.

            He has not been so pleased and peaceful in fifteen years. It is Ezra’s doing, of that James has no doubt. To be loved by such a man helped put an end to his fury, his madness. They may have a litany of crimes to account for in the next life, but in this one they mesh in such a way as to cause the least damage.

            Unless one of them is threatened, in which case all the old ways flood back with a vengeance.

            James does not like that Ezra was so distraught today. He does not want to assume the reasons why Ezra was so deeply affected. Either Ezra will explain himself, or not. James can easily accept either outcome.

            Turning the page, James begins reading aloud to Black Shuck. “The Day of Judgment will be soon, Cries out a Sage among the Crowd; An Ass hath swallow’d up the Moon: The Moon lay safe behind the Cloud.” With a snort, James continues, scratching Shuck behind the ear.

           

Less than ten minutes pass before James hears the downstairs door unlock. Black Shuck is immediately up and bounding across the apartment, then barrelling down the stairs. James picks up a murmur, followed by the very definite click of the shop door being opened and closed.

            When Ezra reaches the top of the stairs, Shuck is not with him. The dog must be locked in the shop for the night. That, surprisingly, is the first thing James notices. The second is the black eye Ezra is cultivating and the blood on his clothes.

            Calmly, James sets the book on his lap. “The question would appear to be how swiftly we should flee.”

            Squinting at him as he toes out of his shoes, Ezra says, “What?” Almost as quickly, he absorbs what James is intimating and pulls a face. “No. Nothing of that sort.”

            “Then the next question must be who I have to kill.”

            “Don’t be melodramatic. I can take care of myself.”

            As Ezra crosses the room, James takes in the sight of him. His knuckles are bruised, his lower lip puffy. The cuffs and collar of his shirt are spattered with blood. The smell of him reaches James—Ezra absolutely reeks of alcohol. His step is none too steady, either.

            Ezra falls into his favourite seat with a  grunt. He slumps, looking only a few minutes from sleep. Eyes closed, he says, “I am exceedingly drunk.”

            “I had a suspicion.”

            Taking a deep breath, Ezra rolls his head so he can look straight at James. “In case you hear a rumour, I might have destroyed a tavern.”

            James gazes at him a moment, then sets aside his book. “Define _destroyed_.”

            “Oh, nothing serious. I didn’t burn it down or the like. I might have merely—broken a few bottles. And windows. Mirrors. Bones of patrons and proprietor alike.” He raises his hands, examining his most valuable instruments. “I suppose these will be rather sore once the drink wears off.”

            It is getting harder to suppress his concern. “You know that between the two of us, I’d be the candidate for acting out in such a manner.”

            “Mm. You’ve proven a terrible influence, McGraw.”

            Enough. James has given Ezra as much space as he is able. Now it is time for questions. Intoxicated as he is, Ezra might even answer honestly. “What occasioned the golem rising?”

            “Hm? Oh. Oh, just—” Ezra rubs at the inside corner of his eye with a fingertip. “Some man. A slaver. I was trying to have several quiet drinks, and he was behind me, expelling naught but ignorance from his mouth. I did my very best to ignore him, but—finally he said more than I could bear, and since my bottle was by then empty, it seemed an opportune time to shatter it over his head. So I did. He went down rather quickly; the same could not be said of his crew.”

            “How many?”

            Ezra shrugs, as if he could not be bothered to count. “It was a bit muddled. Quite some time since I had to use fists to extricate myself from a situation. For the best. If I’d had my sword, we most certainly would have had to leave the city.”

            “Any injuries worse than I can observe?”

            Ezra shakes his head, settling down further against the chair. “None that I’m aware of, at least.”

            Watching him, James asks, “Were you so displeased by seeing Burial?”

            “No,” Ezra replies. “His face in front of me was the best thing to happen in months.”

            “The brevity of the encounter, then.”

            Ezra considers it. “In part. It brought to the surface things I have tried to deny to myself.”

            “Like what?”

            Ezra looks at him and says baldly, “I am terribly lonely, James. It is so overwhelming that I might be ill were I to ever really confront it. So I haven’t. Having Burial here, where I could touch him, where I could speak our secret tongues, only to have it snatched away so abruptly—it was more than my heart could bear.”

            James is dumbfounded. They are typically honest with one another, but not to this extent. Shifting uncomfortably, he says, “You have kept to yourself here.”

            “What option is there? Ingratiate myself, only to lose everyone again? I think not.” Ezra shakes his head again, gazing up at the ceiling. “And yet, I am not like you, James. You can content yourself with your company and mine and none other. That is not my make. I have always had people around me. I’ve always made friends. The only times I am solitary is when I’m half mad. Yet here we are. I lost my family, then my husband and crew, then my town. I could not stomach another such blow. So that is the end of it.”

            James should say something. In the past, he has found the right words to console Ezra. This, though, is not an area he understands. His social circle has always been small, or non-existent. Yes, he has been fine with only the two of them. There is a part of him stung to discover that Ezra has not been.

            Before he can fumble through comforting, half-meant words, Ezra sighs and pushes himself up a few inches. “No one loves a maudlin drunk, least of all me. I should get to bed before I start sobering up.” He wipes a hand against his pants. “Half of me wants to see your prick and the other half wants rest. I’ll leave the decision to you.”

            “I think I’ll read awhile,” James says quietly.

            With a nod, Ezra staggers to his feet. “Wise. I’d likely pass out before either of us saw satisfaction.”

            He has a hand to the wall as he makes his way to the bedroom. James says, “Undress first, or you’ll blood the sheets.”

            “Shall,” Ezra replies, and disappears around the corner.

            James is left alone, again, to ponder what he does not know.

           

It is after lunch when James returns home. He had some errands to run, but the truth is that he has delayed. After breakfast with Tom Fingers, he spent much of the morning and early afternoon haunting different watering holes, keeping his ear to the ground. Besides Visser grousing about his daughter and the crew of the _Daedalus_ whispering about a ghost ship, James has heard many relevant tidbits, some he could have done without.

            Finally, feeling a coward, and irritated for reasons he cannot articulate, James walks past the shop front and sees the notice there. ‘Closed due to illness.’ When he left before dawn, Ezra was snoring, half off the bed. It would be a shock if he were not spectacularly hungover. Still, James gets a little twist to the innards, unsure what he will find once he goes upstairs.

            He is unsurprised by what he finds. The apartment has been cleaned, and Ezra is at the stove, stirring something in a pot while Black Shuck sits at his feet. “Not a word,” he says cheerfully before hellos can be given. “Before you give yourself more wrinkles, I’m only reheating what I bought. Have you eaten? I decided on a late lunch.”

            It would be more unlikely to have Ezra ready to own up, to address last night. This is merely a facade for him to retreat behind.

            James does not remove his boots. He sits down at the table, carefully watching Ezra all the while. “How’s your head?”

            “Quite all right. One of the perks of being an apothecary: my ailments are typically short lived.” With Ezra’s face in profile, James can see how his left eye has swollen, a brutal mix of black and blue, yellowed at the edges. “What mischief have you found today?”

            “I ate with Tom.”

            “Pretty Tom. He should watch himself with you. He’s already down several fingers, and I keep my cutting forceps quite sharp. What did the pretty gossip have to say?”

            “There’s quite a few stories going around today,” James responds.

            Remaining focused on the stove, Ezra says, “Such as?”

            “They’re saying a lunatic nearly killed ten men just off Houthaven.”

            “Well, you know how sailors exaggerate. I’d lay money it was closer to five.”

            “They’re saying he severed the Achilles tendon of a captain.”

            “Hm.”

            “Ezra, they’re saying a man put a broken bottle into the owner’s face and took out his eye. They’re _all_ saying that.”

            Sighing, Ezra turns and puts a hand to his hip. “Does anyone suspect me?”

            “No. It’s half the city from this place.”

            “Then it’s a closed book.” Ezra exhales again. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

            Yes, why? It’s less than James has done. He has probably done worse and forgotten the particulars.

            When James does not answer, Ezra raises his shoulders. “James, it’s not as though you didn’t know I was capable. I’m a murdering bastard. As are you. For all our domesticity, that simply doesn’t vanish.”

            James folds his fingers together. He does not know what he will say until it is being said. “I did not realize you were so unhappy.”       

            Ezra stares at him. “I’m…” He stops, speechless.

            “You are. You’re unhappy here. With me.”

            “No!” Ezra rushes to say. “Of course I’m happy.” James arches a brow, and Ezra grimaces. “Yes, I’m unhappy. But not with you. Never with you.”

            “What am I to you, that you could not tell me this?”

            Ezra braces a hand on the countertop. “No man is ever entirely happy. It’s a fairy story. I’m fine. You’re happy here, you’re content, and that’s good. I’m not, and what of it? Why would I tell you that? Am I to expect you to make everything better?”

            The truth is that James is embarrassed he missed so much. Instead, he finds himself getting angry. “Do you trust me so little?”

            “Why are you making this about you?”

            “Apparently your displeasure will get us both run out of the city if it continues.”

            “What you mean to say is that you will lose you comfortable position. You’re not actually concerned about me.”

            This is getting ridiculous. And dangerous. Yet James cannot stop himself edging down this slope. “Do you even want to be here? Or are you sabotaging what we’ve built?”

            Ezra puts up both hands. “You’re looking for a reason to be grieved. I am ending this line of discussion.” He turns back to the pot and continues stirring.

            “What, you think this is finished because _you_ decree it?”

            “Yes!” Ezra says, exasperated. “Lunch is ready. Would you remove your boots, please?”

            “Don’t presume to tell me what to do, Wake.” James glowers, then mutters, “Mrs. Wake.”

            Ezra goes still. He turns, black eyes hard and face set. He bites off, “What—precisely—does that mean?”

            James shrugs. “I thought we were finished talking. By all means, let’s eat the fucking stew.”

            “Out with it.” When James does not reply, Ezra snaps, “So help me God—”

            “You’d never have me if Henry were alive.”

            The colour drains from Ezra’s face. He stares at James, unblinking, for several seconds. Further and further down, a voice inside is screaming at James, wanting to know what he’s doing, begging him to stop. But it is silenced by a rising tide of jealousy.

            It has been there a long time. Why it appears now is a mystery. Only it has, and there is no halting it.

            Finding his voice, Ezra says hoarsely, “That is in no way fair.”

            “Who said monsters are fair?”

            “James—please, I don’t want to do this—”

            ‘You can’t even pretend, can you—”

            “If Miranda and Thomas were alive, you’d not give me a second look!” 

            “No, I wouldn’t!”

            “There! Fine! We’ve settled for one another. Does that make you happy?” Ezra looks away from James, shaken. He trembles, then wraps his arms around himself.

            There does not seem a way backwards.

            Ezra shakes himself off. His expression returns to normal, and his body relaxes. Like he has shed the argument easily as snakeskin. “Enough. Let’s just eat—”

            “Don’t do that!” James shouts. “Don’t put on another one of your fucking masks, like I can’t tell what you’re doing—”

            Just as quickly, Ezra switches to fury, meeting James for volume. “What do you want from me?! I lie, you’re angry; I tell the truth, you take it as a slight! What in the hell do you want?”

            “I want someone who actually bloody belongs to me, not a man who can’t bother to tell me the fucking truth—”

            “ _You_ were the one who told me to put my rings back on! You told me you understood that I could love you both—”

            “Well, he’s dead, and there’s no hell, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

            Ezra bites his lip. “You need to leave,” he says tightly.

            “Why? Afraid to hear what you’d rather not?”

            “No. You’re being absurd but it’s upsetting me, and if we continue, I’ll meet you for cruelty and it will come to blows, and if you were thinking clearly—”

            “Thinking clearly! You’re such a fucking mystery to yourself that you’ll blubber over the merest intimation of a man long dead.”

            He knows he is being unreasonable. He knows it. He _knows_. And yet there is no ceasing now.

            When Ezra inhales, James knows something awful is coming. “If I shed tears for the man who loved me, it’s of no concern to you. He was a better man than you, and would have never spoken to me like this.” Before James can retort, Ezra continues, hands making fists at his sides. “And there was naught I could do to prevent his loss. But you—you lost your companions through sheer arrogance. My Henry fought until the end. Your Thomas was so weak he could not bear to live—”

            James is on his feet and looming over Ezra before he knows what is happening.

            Ezra glares up at him, undeterred. “How did it feel to see that corpse propped up in the square?” he hisses. “Your whore—”

            It is a miracle that keeps him from striking. James is breathing heavily, vision blurring.

            “Do it,” Ezra dares. “You wanted this. Do it, you fucking coward.”

            Somehow, James manages to growl, “Get out of my sight.”

            They glare at one another a long moment.

            Ezra steps away, muttering, “Gladly.” He strides past James, and the front door slams.

            James stands in place a few seconds. Then he loses his temper.

 

They go about the work of putting the kitchen back together in silence. James has focused on the hole in the wall, needing one project to devote his energy to. He does not know if his pride could handle sweeping up all the glass. Fortunately, when Ezra returned, that is what he immediately went to. He is gently breaking jagged shards out of the window pane. They tinkle as he drops them atop the other pieces in the bin.

            When James finishes smoothing out the plaster, he drops his tools on the lopsided table. Without bothering to wash his hands, he goes to his chair. Collapsing onto it, he threads his fingers together and stares at the floor.

            He is spent.

            From the edge of his vision, he sees Ezra stand by the table. A room separates them, but it may as well be an ocean.

            “I am so sorry,” Ezra says softly.

            Chewing the inside of his lip, James raises his eyes.

            Stricken, Ezra takes a moment to speak. “I am not only ashamed—I am mortified. And afraid. I’m not—” He closes his eyes a second. “I am here with you for one reason, and one reason alone. Not settling. Not loneliness. My affection for you runs deeper than you may ever know. I cannot bear to be without you, James. I’m frightened that you might not know that.”

            Shame ripples through James. He has kept it simmering, but now it overflows all imposed boundaries.

            “I know,” he says.

            Ezra exhales. “I know it’s not your way to apologize—”

            “I don’t have the words, Wake. If I did…”

            “I know,” Ezra echoes.

            Sighing, James starts to shed the tension he has fostered. “It’s ridiculous that you feel you should apologize to me. I instigated this. I was entirely unreasonable. You’re in pain and I took it as a personal insult.”

            “People have difficult times. I didn’t want you to worry.”          

            “How did that go?”

            Ezra smiles crookedly, but only momentarily. “I—did not know Henry was such a sore spot of conversation for you.”

            “He’s not,” James says, and Ezra lifts a brow. James sniffs, then admits, “You know I’m selfish. Sometimes the thought that you’ll never be entirely mine… But you’re right. That’s not being fair.”

            “I just love you differently. He was my first love. You will be my last.” Ezra sits on the edge of the table. “I like that you come with a history. I’m glad you’ve had companions.”

            “Rub it in. You’re the better man.” Ezra snorts, and James watches him. “How can I ease your burden?”

            Going solemn, Ezra ponders the question. “I don’t know, James. I’m unsure of the solution.”

            “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your hardship.”

            “Stop it. When you’re explicit in your apologies, it unnerves me. The options before me, none of them appeal. Continue as I am, and be miserable. Risk myself and make relationships, only to lose them when we leave.”

            “Are we planning on leaving?”

            “At this point, I don’t think I shall ever stay in one place indefinitely. History has proven that.”

            “I would go anywhere you pleased.”

            “I like Amsterdam. I just don’t…well.”

            “I’d keep you all to myself if I could. But since that would make you unhappy…”

            “I keep telling you. You are the one thing I would not wish to be other.”

            “You need more, though. Just because I’m a solitary old man does not mean you should be as well.”

            Ezra scuffs a foot against the floor. Then he smiles again. “Do you know something I never did with Henry? We never fought.”

            “Christ,” James barks. “Twist the knife.”

            “I like that we fight. I like knowing we can push one another to the brink, but always return to one another. Myself, at least. I’ve my doubts about you, James.”

            It is said teasingly, but James can detect the grain of seriousness. “A life without you would be none at all, Ezra.”

            The man actually blushes. James could count on one hand the number of times he has made Ezra blush. With a shudder, Ezra says, “Enough words. This much sentiment must be bad for us.”

            “It must,” James agrees.

            Ezra glances at the kitchen and sighs. “We are a pair, are we not.”

            “At least I didn’t take out a man’s eye.”

            “Like you’re above it.” Ezra eyes the damage, then shrugs it off. He turns his attention back to James. “I suppose we should fuck, to put this business behind us.”

            After a pause, James says dryly, “If you insist.”

            Neither of them moves. Eventually, Ezra starts laughing. “Were you expecting me to come over there?”

            “Were you expecting _me_ to come over there?”

            Ezra runs a hand over his hair. A wicked gleam comes to his eye. “You know, I’ve held onto something for a special occasion, but this appears as good a time as any.”

            As he stands, James asks, “Did you invest in props? I don’t know that we require any quite yet.”

            Ezra shakes his head, pulling his shirt from his pants. “Not as of yet, but I’ve some ideas in that regard. No, I told you once that I was going to do something for you, but we’ve never gotten around to it.”

            He starts stripping, as always unashamed and matter-of-fact about the act. James watches how the early evening light illuminates his scars. “Should I be undressing?” James asks, distracted.

            “Oh no. You stay just as you are.”

            Ezra is slim and savagely marked. James cherishes every scar. He likes how casually his man wears past damages.

            Ezra stretches an arm above his head, then the other. “I have never done this for anyone, so you had better bloody appreciate this.”

            “I’m intrigued.”

            With an inscrutable gaze, Ezra inhales through his nose. Then he sinks to his knees. A wave of relaxation comes over him, and he bends forward, back arching downward. He puts his hands to the ground.

            James realizes what he is about to do, and grins. “Oh, you hate this.”

            “Shut up,” Ezra says, then begins crawling across the floor to him.

            James leans back, enjoying every second. Seeing Ezra in a submissive position is always a thrill, and there is no position more submissive than this. Ezra might protest, but James knows he would not do this if he did not enjoy it.

            Each movement is deliberate. James has never had anyone crawl for him, and the people he has had on their knees typically were two seconds from being shot. Ezra makes this seem like an inevitable prelude to sex, like this is the only reason a man would be on his knees. He practically slinks across the floor, the bones of his hips rising and falling. His eyes fasten to James’ face all the while. Like nothing else exists.

            That is the purpose of this exercise. James recognizes it. This is the fastest way for Ezra to demonstrate that he belongs to James. Knowing he made Ezra feel that this needed to be proven gives James a moment of regret.

            Only Ezra reaches him then. His eyes drop, watching the work of his hands. He wraps fingers around James’ calves, thumbs rubbing the shin bones. Slowly, his touch travels upwards. The look on his face—like touching James is the only thing he could possibly want to do.

            This is another mask he wears. James does not want disguises. He wants to know that he undoes Ezra as easily as the man does him.

            He lets Ezra unfasten his trousers, then stops his hands. Ezra frowns, quizzical, and James slips his hands under Ezra’s arms. “Up,” he prompts.

            Ezra does as he is told. James draws him closer, between spread legs. He lets his hands roam the small of Ezra’s back, then smooths fingers over Ezra’s ass. James hears Ezra’s breath catch as he leans forward. Nuzzling against skin, James takes a moment to taste a bruise over Ezra’s hip. He wants to know the full story of his assault on the tavern. He wants to know the full definition of _destroyed_.

            His tongue probes the bruised flesh. Ezra hisses. His hands cup James’ head, fingers threading through hair. Ezra leans into James’ touch as James licks along his hip.

            When James draws back, they seem to understand exactly what the other wants. Ezra climbs onto James’ lap as James slips an arm around him, lifting one of Ezra’s thighs to fit him even closer. He is raising Ezra higher as they kiss, every movement entirely natural. Ezra hooks an arm around James’ neck, splaying a hand against his face. He is already grinding slowly downwards, tongue in James’ mouth, trying to breathe at the same time.

            It is not an elegant fuck, but it is precisely what they need. Not a word spoken. Pants yanked down his thighs as he tries to balance a full-grown man in his lap. Spit in his palm, enough resistance to elicit a cry. Fierceness, accepting everything given. The tugging of hair, the kneading of flesh, lips bitten and eyes locked. Daring one another wordlessly. Rising and falling.

            Rising and falling.

 

“What sort of lover was Henry?” James asks.

            They sit up on the roof, sharing a papelate. The tobacco burns James’ throat. He wears only trousers, and Ezra has on some of James’ clothes. They are oversize, but Ezra always claims they are comfortable, and he will wear whatever he pleases.

            Ezra squints against the fading light, gauging whether James is being curious or jealous. It’s the former—any animosity on the topic has been lanced. Taking a drag on the tobacco roll, he considers the question.

            “Gentle,” Ezra finally settles on.

            James refrains from saying something biting. He’s relaxed and in a generous mood.

            “I think he was always a bit frightened of harming me. Keep in mind, I was a young man when our relationship began, and he had seen me at what was so far my worst. He always kept a certain image of me in his mind.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “That I was someone in need of protecting. First impressions and all that. He was the one who taught me to fight, to protect myself. And yet I always got the impression that he thought me fragile.”

            Snorting, James says, “Wake, you are the least fragile man I’ve ever encountered.”

            “That I am. I’m not saying he coddled me. I’m only saying he hesitated to approach certain boundaries with me.” Ezra passes the papelate back to James. “That, though, is a minor complaint in the grander scheme.” He reaches over as James smokes, brushing hair back from his forehead. “I like the white in your hair. Makes you look distinguished.”

            “Only way that will ever bloody happen.”

            Ezra withdraws his hand, yawning. “And yours, old man? What kind of lovers were they?”

            James raises his brows, inhaling. Hesitant, as always, to share these pieces of his memory. “Generous,” he settles on. He thinks a little more, than elaborates. “Skilled.”

            “The two of us, eh? Together we could count our bedmates on a single hand.”

            “We’re quite dull, if you think about it.”

            “Yes, that’s exactly how I’d describe us.”

            “Thomas, he was—it was like some ideal from antiquity. It was…” James cannot go on, so he redirects the topic. “Miranda, she was full of joy. All those years ago. It’s like you and I sometimes. She would say things to make a sailor blush, and she—she was made of light. Those were early days, though. After, it was all rather grim.” James thinks, then says, “I wish she were here now.”

            “Just missing her? Or a particular reason?”

            “She would know what to do about _you_ ,” James says, and Ezra rolls his eyes. “I’ve never been the best with such matters. Miranda, if it was her here and not me, she would size you up and know exactly what you need.”

            “I needed a massive prick inside me. Don’t know what she would have done about that.”

            “Massive,” James mutters.

            “Don’t feign modesty with me, McGraw. I’m the one with the hitch in my step, thank you.”

            James slouches further in the chair, rocking a knee to and fro. The sun is just starting to dip below the buildings. “She would know what I should do to make you happy.”

            “Old man, it’s not your responsibility to ensure my happiness.”

            “Yes. It is.”

            Ezra glances at him, smile lopsided. “I do like that you think it is.”

            “Perhaps it is time for presents. You always seem happier when gifts are involved.”

            Laughing, Ezra says, “Must you point out all my flaws?”

            “I must.”

            “Well, I can never say no to presents, and you do give the best ones. Let’s see you find me a present to cure all my woes.”

            “So no pressure, then.”

            “None at all.”

            “Are you about ready to go in?”

            Ezra sucks deeply on the papelate, then exhales smoke from between his teeth. “Not just yet. I could do with some stars.”

            “As could I,” James agrees, and they light another roll as the sun goes down.

 

It takes less time than James imagined to find something he thinks will please Ezra. Two days pass, and he comes through the door of the apothecary late in the afternoon. “Wake!” he barks.

            From the back, Ezra calls, “I’m occupied, old man—”

            “Can you come here a moment?”

            “James, I really am—”

            “Ezra.”

            There is a pause, then a dramatic sigh. James can hear the rustle and clatter of things being moved about. Ezra must be working on yet another remedy. “For pity’s sake, what could be so—” He comes through the doorway, wiping his stained hands on a cloth, and stops.

            James clears his throat, unused to this manner of introduction. He jerks his head between the young woman at his side and Ezra. In Dutch, he says, ‘Miss Visser, this is Ezra Wake.’ The shy young thing ducks her head a moment in greeting, and James switches back to English. “Wake, this is Betje Visser, Ewoud’s daughter. I know your Dutch is lacking, but she’s fluent in French.”

            Ezra gives James a cautious look, but smiles warmly at their guest. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.”

            “Très heureuse,” Miss Visser replies, flushing slightly.

            Ezra looks at James for an explanation. James almost hesitates. This has all been fairly presumptuous on his part, but he has come this far. Hands behind his back, James says, “Miss Visser has a considerable interest in the medical arts, but her father has been unable to find anyone to teach or train her. I mentioned that you might be willing to give her a few lessons. Or more, depending on how busy you are.”

            Oh, there is no telling what is going through Ezra’s head. He gives James a blank stare, then smiles again at Miss Visser. “Excuzes-nous une seconde.” He crooks a finger at James, already moving into the other room.

            James smiles tightly at the girl, then follows Ezra. This was too bold. He should have known that. But desperate times and all that.

            Around the corner, Ezra turns to confront James. “All I have on my plate, and you thought the solution was to give me an apprentice?”

            “I didn’t tell them anything certain, only that you might offer some advice—”

            Ezra grabs James by the lapels, standing on tiptoes and yanking him downwards to plant a ferocious kiss on his lips. James barely has the time to respond before Ezra is dropping back on the balls of his feet.

            Practically beaming, Ezra shakes his head. “Damn you, James,” he murmurs. “I thought you might get me a dog, not a human. You ridiculously thoughtful creature.”

            He pushes James away. Dazed, James says, “Do you want a dog?”

            “Wouldn’t say no,” Ezra replies, walking back through the door.

            Well, Christ. Now he has to find a dog. They barely have room for the one they already have. Only Ezra is happy. For the moment, at least. And to James, that is all that could possibly matter. So a dog it is.

            That settled, James goes to see how Ezra is getting on with his new apprentice.


End file.
